


The Brown Bear of Norway

by strawberrykait



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Child Abuse, Dark, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Implied Sexual Content, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco remembered a vague feeling of familiarity when she whispered to him in the dark. The shameful tears dried on his cheeks while she spun her web of whimsical tales. Through sleep-heavy lips, on the verge of unconsciousness, he asked her name.</p>
<p>“I am the Brown Bear of Norway,” she murmured, her breath chilling against his flushed cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkrivertempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/gifts).



> **Genres:** Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Plot Based on (Other) Book/Film, Romance.  
>  **Warnings:** Mild Profanity, Severe Abuse, Non-con/rape, Torture, Implicit Sexual Situations.  
>  **Timeline:** Post-Hogwarts AU (Voldemort Wins)  
>  **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, Isabel Cole, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.  
>  **Story Notes:** Darkrivertempest asked for a remixed fairy tale. This is based the short story by Isabel Cole and the original Irish fairy tale, of the same title. A very special THANK YOU to Misdemeanor1331 for being my soundboard/cheerleader/beta/friend, and to McCargi, as always.  
>  **Beta(s):** McCargi.
> 
> **Download the fanmix for this story here:[The Brown Bear of Norway](https://www.mediafire.com/folder/51mh56x83nrm2/BrownBearofNorway)**

The blood on his hands had dried in dark patches. Draco absently picked it off, as though it were nothing more than mud caking his alabaster skin. After entering his opulent home, he was silently, fearfully greeted by a House-elf, who retrieved the tossed articles of clothing Draco flung off his exhausted body. With his head drooping, his shoulders hunched forward, Draco made his way to his bedroom. His footfalls were heavy, echoing throughout the empty foyer and up the winding stairs, the only sound other than his quiet panting breaths.

His bedroom was overly warm, the fireplace blazing brightly across from his enormous bed, casting sinister shadows everywhere. Draco wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. He was the dark. The heat from the fire felt good against his bare skin as he removed the final remnants of his clothing, the trail coming to an end at the foot of the bed. The fire continued to flare, the wood occasionally popping, glowing brightly, reflecting in his slate grey eyes. Slowly, unconsciously, his hand rubbed against chest, just above where his heart ought to have been, had he had one. Draco often doubted it existed anymore.

After several long moments, when his eyes began to burn and sting, he turned away from the fire and crawled atop his massive, empty bed, burrowing down within the lush covers. He sighed when his hot cheek pressed deeply into the cool, satin pillow. Draco did not fall asleep immediately, however. Instead, he lay awake, eyes squeezed shut, pushing out of his mind all the horrible things he’d seen that day—things he’d done—desperately longing for relief. 

Then she was there. 

He felt the slight shift of the mattress beside him, smelled her hair as she lay down. The warmth of her body pressed against his back and Draco sighed once more. He would always recognize her without ever having seen her. Without opening his eyes, Draco waited for more. Her delicate, hot hand gently touched the tip of his shoulder, forcing him to shudder, his breath catching in his throat. She was here, finally. Too many days had passed without her in his bed, to comfort and to hold him, long after he had fallen asleep, until the night eventually gave out to the slow-rising sun and forced them both to return to their own separate, horrid worlds. 

Draco couldn’t bear the thought; so instead, he snatched at her hand, bringing her palm to his mouth. He kissed the delicate, hot skin, his mouth lingering before pulling her arm beneath his own. He placed her palm against his chest, knowing that the frantic beating heart he felt beat for them both. Behind him, she nuzzled down, sighing deeply. Draco echoed her, feeling peace swell out of her and into him, washing away the horrors of his day. 

Draco could never sleep without her, and at last, she had returned to him.

•×•

The wretched screams echoed off the vaulted ceilings back to the small crowd gathered below, eventually disappearing in the shadowy corners. Electricity shot from McNair’s wand, crisp white bolts of unadulterated agony, straight into the already shuddering shell of a wizard, curled on the floor. Drool and blood slipped from his mouth and the air was suddenly heavy with the scent of his freed bowels.

Draco sneered at the foul odour, but did nothing to stop the torture session. There was nothing he could have done, even if he wanted to, so he did his best to disregard such things. McNair was quite enthusiastic—a praise-worthy trait in a Death Eater, but one Draco only managed to imitate when necessary. To his left stood Vaisey, watching with barely contained glee. The smile spread across Vaisey’s face was deranged and manic. Under his breath, Draco could make out a few words. “Get him… do it… yeah, _yeah_ …”

Draco sighed, wondering how much longer this would take. 

His mind wandered, which was so easy to do. He stared down at the dying man, unsure in that moment exactly why they were killing him. Draco couldn’t even be sure that they had the right wizard, but it hardly mattered these days. There had been so many who had died by their wands, by Draco’s wand, too, that it was impossible to remember all the details. For too many years now, this was all Draco amounted to: torture and murder. He’d become numb from it all, and a small part of him worried that he would never recover from it. When he looked around at his comrades, he knew he was different and that he ought not to have such thoughts. Just look at the poor bastard before him. The Dark Lord brooked no dissent whatsoever. 

Vaisey shoved McNair aside when he finally relented, deciding it was his turn. The dying man had no time to even catch his breath. This time, there was no lightning, but fire. The charred flesh filled Draco’s nostrils. Involuntarily, his stomach growled. He thought he’d soon be sick. McNair whooped in excitement along with Vaisey, who howled in delight.

After only a few seconds Draco knew he would be sick, so he made a show of rolling his eyes and complaining about how much longer this would take before sauntering outside. Rabastan was standing guard, unfortunately. Once the night air hit his face, the nausea grew stronger. Draco cut his eyes toward the other Death Eater before walking past him, his stride purposeful. With shaking hands, Draco lifted his wand furtively and cast an anti-nausea charm. After a few deep breaths, the sensation had passed, and his head finally cleared. 

His mind wandered back to the night before, when she had held him in the dark, her warm mouth leaving a trail of wet kisses across his shoulders, down to the dip of his back. Her tongue swept across his skin lightly, nothing more than a ghost, leaving behind a cooling trail of anticipation and deep ache. 

Here, in the dour ruins of Diagon Alley, Draco jerked his shoulders, passing the shudder off merely as irritation, or so he hoped. It wasn’t good to think too much about the Brown Bear, especially when he was carrying out the Dark Lord’s unpardonable errands. Normally, he was very good at keeping her locked away, buried deep, deep down in his mind, where no one, not even _he_ could find her. However, now and again, when Draco could not control himself, she would resurface and give him the strength to make it through whatever nefarious duty weighed upon him. He longed for the night, when she would come to him with hot breath and soft touches, when she would roll him onto his back and lay her slight body against his, invigorating his shrunken heart and giving him a reason to go on.

With a final shudder, he buried her once more and turned back to Rabastan. The pair walked back together through the doorway of the obliterated shop and watched for a moment. Draco’s glacial eyes signalled Rabastan, who then flicked his wand, sending lightning from the tip to surge through the practically dead man curled in a ball on the filthy floor, so charred that he reminded Draco of the dead of Pompeii. The breath escaped him in that instant, and Draco felt his final relief. McNair and Vaisey glared at Draco for interrupting their fun, but they weren’t worth acknowledging. Draco was the first to walk away from the scorched figure, out into the night. Inside, he felt his soul ebb away.

•×•

He had memories of the Brown Bear of Norway as far back as his Hogwarts school days, just before the real dark times began again. His father was freed from Azakaban; his mother was essentially incapacitated. The Dark Lord had overtaken his family home and almost immediately infiltrated Draco’s vulnerable, young mind. The first time the Brown Bear came to him was the night following his horrific induction ceremony. His aching arm burning with the malevolent Dark Mark, as though the very skin cringed away in sheer terror of what would be expected of him for the rest of his life, was the least of his pains that night.

The Brown Bear had soothed his trembling and finally given him peace enough to sleep; although, at the time, he believed her nothing more than a dream. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw small, white hands wiping away the blood and sweat from his tattooed arm. Draco remembered catching a glimpse of a huge, hairy beast. His heart lurched within his chest; however, odd as it seemed, he wasn’t afraid. It was impossible to make out her exact shape and Draco wasn’t sure how he knew that she _was_ even female, but she radiated compassion and confidence, and her touch was gentle, almost healing. 

Once the pain dulled to only a weak throb, Draco felt his fever drop as well and closed his eyes in relief. After her first caress, it never occurred to him to be afraid of the beast beside him. Instead, he was unbelievably comforted by her in many ways but most extraordinarily when she began to whisper to him with a soft feminine voice. She told him that she had travelled across mountains and swam through fathomless fjords; that she drank from icy rivers and caught unsuspecting fish with her bare hands. Her hands drifted across his naked abdomen like a warm breeze, raising the hairs there whenever her fingers grazed him down low. She whispered to him that her body was as fluid as that freezing river and that she could journey for miles and miles, yet could never truly escape. 

Draco remembered a vague feeling of familiarity when she whispered to him in the dark. The shameful tears dried on his cheeks while she spun her web of whimsical tales. Through sleep-heavy lips, on the verge of unconsciousness, he asked her name.

“I am the Brown Bear of Norway,” she murmured, her breath chilling against his flushed cheek.

•×•

The days were nothing less than drudgery, cold and common; a never-ending session in torture, sometimes for Draco, other times by his hand. All the lies he’d been raised to believe in — that Pure-bloods were born to rule over their lesser, such as Mudbloods; that being born within an affluent family meant you actually mattered in the grand scheme of things; that the world would have been a better place had the Dark Lord not been thwarted by a tiny brat in a crib — all of it rammed into his young mind, indelibly shaping his conscience into that of a villain long before free will was ever introduced to him, swirled within him all of the time. Only lately did he really begin to doubt.

He stood by watching strangers and acquaintances burn alive, their screams silenced by Muffliato, yet Draco could hear them reverberating through his empty chest, through his closed-off mind. He did nothing. He never did anything to stop it. What could he do? He was a Death Eater, as equally at the mercy of the Dark Lord as any of these poor sods.

Mercy. Draco scoffed at the notion, and Mulciber elbowed him, a wicked grin plastered across his warped face. Draco’s blank stare wiped the older wizard’s face clean after a moment. Even among his fellow villains, Draco was alone.

•×•

He absolutely hated dreaming. Many nights, Draco depended upon a Dreamless Draught to prevent the damn things from plaguing him during the night. Other times, he’d simply stay awake for days, exhausting himself intentionally, just to avoid the nightmares that awaited him whenever he slept. The only time he managed to avoid the nightmares completely were on the nights the Brown Bear shared his bed, her hot arms banded about him, protecting him. Tonight, unfortunately, he had none of these comforts to defend himself. Draco uselessly chucked the empty vial against the far wall and cursed.

Throughout his many years of servitude to the Dark Lord, and even a few before that wretched time began, Draco had witnessed a multitude of horrible crimes against other witches and wizards, both Muggle-borns and Pure-bloods. It had taken less time than he would have expected for scenes of torture not to affect him the way it did in the beginning. However, there were still some travesties that terrified him, and these were the fuel of his nightmares.

Hours crept slowly by as he lay awake, staring at her empty place, willing her to appear. 

Why had she abandoned him? Had he done something, said something wrong? His mind whirled with horrible images, both real and imagined. Eventually, he fell into restless sleep. Living so far from the rest of the world afforded Draco glorious privacy, the mansion surrounded by nothing outside of nature. It was a luxury Draco only appreciated during the daylight hours. On nights like these, he longed for the annoyance of the city, erupting with a cacophony capable of warding off sleep better than anything else. At the manor, however, not even the quiet hum of insects intruded upon his sleep. 

The nightmare was always the same, beginning with his father’s cruelty. Despite Draco’s many attempts to remove these memories from his mind, the traces of his father caning him were only later surpassed later only by what the Dark Lord had done. The memories remained, filling his dreams with terror and agony. No amount of potions could ever completely eradicate Draco’s shame. After the first time Lucius had raised his trusted cane against him, when he was only fourteen years old, Draco had been irrevocably humiliated. Despite his age, he had wanted to tell his mother what had happened; however, following that first cruel beating, when Draco had needed the assistance of two House-elves to return to his room, he had gone to Narcissa. When he had caught her eye, he knew that she knew. In anger and spite, Draco believed she had approved of it, too, but after some time and more of Lucius’ brand of correction, he realized that she was just as helpless to stop it as he was.

Lucius’ hands were very large, even after Draco had grown into a young man. They were large, strong, and surprisingly rough for a man who had never lowered himself to manual labour of any sort. The most work Draco had ever witnessed his Father perform had been whipping the House-elves, or some other underling unworthy of actual recognition. Lucius’ hands had a very tight grip in Draco’s memory. The fingers, with their blunt nails digging into his pliable shoulder, pressing down the weight of patriarchy onto Draco’s young shoulders, leaving more than a mere impression. Although Lucius had only occasionally turned his hand against him as a boy, Draco had always been afraid of his father. Lucius considered it a father’s duty to rear up a child to be strong, to know when to press an advantage, and most importantly, to be obedient. This had been his lesson, and Draco had had to learn it.

After that first _chastisement_ , Draco tried to be more obedient and was anxious to please his father at every turn. However, with Harry Potter always trumping Draco’s efforts at Hogwarts, it seemed impossible to avoid Lucius’ wrath. Fortunately, Lucius’ punishments were never as demoralizing as they were that particular night. Shortly thereafter was the incident at the Ministry, when Potter and the Order of the Phoenix managed to sabotage Lucius and a small group of Death Eaters. Lucius was sentenced to Azkaban and, despite his love and loyalty to his father, Draco had felt utter relief, believing himself safe from harm.

It was a fool’s hope, he now knew, especially when the Dark Lord chose to inhabit his family home. With him came the worst sort of scoundrels Draco had ever known —vile monsters who previously had existed only in bravado-filled speeches, used to intimidate or impress his classmates. Now, they were his neighbours, so to speak. Outwardly, Draco continued to parade around the manor, acting as the man of the house, when he knew that he truly wasn’t, and very likely never would be. If his father had been cruel, then the Dark Lord was undiluted evil incarnate, slithering around from every corner just like his enormous snake, Nagini. There was nowhere to hide, no safe haven where once there had been. 

Thinking back, he realized just how immature and gullible a young man he had been. Draco had never so eagerly anticipated returning to Hogwarts as he had that summer. 

On the night Draco turned sixteen, the Dark Lord summoned him. Narcissa had tried to speak with Draco about her fears, of what the Dark Lord had intended, but Draco brushed her off every time. Perhaps if she had been a stronger witch, Lord Voldemort wouldn’t have invaded their home. Or, perhaps if she had been a better wife, Lucius wouldn’t have been so disappointed in their only child and felt the need to demean him as he had. Either way, Draco later realized that his mother had become a scapegoat, although that changed when he turned sixteen. 

He already knew what was expected of him, or so he thought. He was to become a Death Eater, the youngest, however not the least of them. Draco knew he would advance quickly within the ranks, surpass his bastard father, certainly, and win the favour of the Dark Lord. He would prove his father wrong in every way and show his mother what real strength and power could accomplish. 

How little he had known then about the ceremony.

Draco tossed in his sleep, reliving the horrors of that night over and over, unable to awaken or to change what had been done to him. When it had been his father domineering over him, it had been horrifying, but what that reptilian bastard had done, before a crowd of villains and monsters, before his own mother, to the cheers of the dregs of the Wizarding world, was lurid and humiliating. When Lord Voldemort stepped up behind him and used his wand to force Draco to bend over, when he pressed his cold body against him, Draco’s mind slipped out of the moment in desperation, to protect himself the only way he knew how. 

He closed his eyes and thought about the Brown Bear of Norway, imagined her warm arms wrapping around him, protecting him in ways neither his father or mother ever could. Thankfully, eventually, the sounds of the cheering crowd faded away. His sweaty palms were pressed against the antique dining table, chafing as he was propelled against the edge. The pain was ephemeral, distant, and soon he was forced upright again, his left sleeve crawling up his arm to expose the pale skin. 

Draco’s eyes remained shut as he felt the Dark Mark sear his tender arm. 

“Now, young Malfoy,” the Dark Lord hissed, “you belong to me.”

Draco jolted upright in bed, his body covered in cold sweat, gasping for breath. It had been several years since he’d been branded and humiliated, yet the fear remained. He would be obedient unto death. There was nothing for him but death anymore. He glanced back at his empty bed, wishing for the hundredth time that single night that the Brown Bear had come back for him.

•×•

There were many days during which Draco wished Potter had killed him in that horrid lavatory. When he was out on an errand, whenever he was capable of tuning out the screams of the damned and the stench of burnt decay, he liked to fantasize about what life would be like as a ghost. Would he have stuck around, in Myrtle’s loo, or would he have been able to leave Hogwarts? What was waiting for us all after death, anything? Nothing? He cut his eyes toward the grovelling witch at his feet, feebly begging for her life, for the life of her Squib brat they’d been sent to exterminate. What fate awaited them afterwards? Would they go to Heaven? Draco nearly laughed, for this world was surely the only Hell there could ever be.

The world was dark and terrible since the Dark Lord had annihilated Harry Potter, the Boy Who Was Supposed to Save Us. After the fall of Potter, the Order of the Phoenix followed, and in no time, both Ministries had been eradicated as well. The only order was chaos delegated by Lord Voldemort and his assembly. 

Every day was overcast, as though the sun itself feared enraging the Dark Lord. The Muggles had interesting phrases to describe what had happened to the world. Before their papers ceased publication, Draco had read snatches of headlines, including _World War Three_ and _nuclear fallout_. Apparently, formerly opposing countries had banded together against England. When this supposed war began, the first thing to go was the old secrecy statute. Once wizards revealed themselves to the world, Muggles quickly discovered they were no match for magical folk, especially not the Dark Lord. Despite the Muggles’ greater numbers, despite their technology and their strong will to survive, they were easily defeated. Draco blamed the Muggles almost as much as he did Voldemort for this damned, smouldering world. Not even a nuclear missile could overpower pure evil, and now everyone was simply dying slowly.

All vegetation shrivelled up and vanished quickly. There were some wealthy, elite Pure-bloods in good standing who maintained private greenhouses and gardens. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters benefited first, though. For the majority, fresh food was impossible. The livestock died off shortly thereafter. And the rumour was that any meat at all was a high commodity. It wasn’t uncommon to witness a couple of people, men mostly, cutting down the decayed bodies from the gallows. Desperate times and all. 

Around every corner lurked Dementors, who often attacked innocent bystanders — and not-so-innocent bystanders. Mudbloods and blood traitors were hung in the streets, on public gallows, their bodies left dangling, rotting off the ropes, the final warning to any who even considered defiance. The stench was brutal.

The streets of London were overflowing with vile human filth. It used to be that whenever Draco would venture into Muggle London he’d practically need a cane to shove aside all the plebeian Muggles, rolling like ocean waves, always trying to carry him off. Now, though, the streets were devoid of life. Not even rats scurried in the nighttime. Every few metres the crumbling walls boasted ragged posters of criminals against the new world order, offering galleons for any information leading to their capture. Most were former Order members or blood traitors. The Mudbloods had been collected early on and sold into slavery, but some had managed to evade capture, which, to Draco, was quite impressive. The death of Harry Potter had initially sparked an uprising, one that was quickly demolished. Homes had been raided, in some instances, but mostly the suspected hideouts were burned to the ground. Draco himself had been present when the Weasley’s excuse for a house had been razed, although no bodies had been recovered. It had taken a few years to round up most of that pitiful clan. Even so, two Weasley’s had evaded capture: the matriarch, Molly, and Charlie, the one who’d been living in Romania for several years. 

As the wind picked up, so did Draco’s pace. He headed through abandoned London, having finished his extermination assignment. More than anything at that moment, he wanted a warm Guinness. Instead, Draco strove through the empty streets, watching the wind occasionally snatch up an errant piece of old paper and carry it off, as though afraid of what he might do to it. Draco was certainly capable of something so indiscriminate. He let his feet guide him blindly, knowing he had nothing to fear here. He was the terror in the night now and he had nowhere else to be.

Again, his thoughts turned to the Brown Bear, wondering where she was. Yesterday morning, he awoke to find a gift: a long, curling brown hair on his pillow, accidentally left behind. For nearly ten minutes, he sat up in bed just staring at it in wonder. It was real, and so was she. The thought had crossed his mind so often that he’d thought he had lost his mind and had merely conjured up the notion of a skin-shifting woman to comfort him. Either way, he was thankful. Draco had used his wand to raise the single strand before charming it so that it wouldn’t snap. 

Currently, the hair was wrapped around his left little finger, nearly cutting off circulation. 

His pace slowed as he remembered last night. 

In a rare moment, the moon broke free from the oppressing, roiling clouds and shone down on the world briefly. Draco was mesmerized by the pure, white light. He took a moment to recall when he had last seen unadulterated moonlight, and came up short. Several seconds were spent standing in his bedroom window, gazing up at the glorious full moon, wishing he were as distant from this hellish world. Then the clouds swallowed the moon whole and the moment left him feeling broken once more. Draco retired to bed.

When she crawled in next to him, he waited for her to touch first, but she didn’t. After a moment, when Draco’s mind was boggled, wondering if she were fickle, or a figment of his deranged imagination, he turned toward her. There again was a sliver of moonlight coming through his window, illuminating her bare back, smooth like alabaster, the dip of waist leading to her softly rounded hips. Shadows obscured the rest of her, but he could differentiate between the inky darkness and her darker hair spread across both pillows. Although she was within reach, he felt she was miles and miles away from him, like the elusive moon. She took a deep breath and shuddered. Without further thought, Draco touched her gently between her shoulder blades, which hitched at his cold fingers before relaxing. 

The Brown Bear spoke. She whispered a story she’d told him many times before: how she had escaped and changed her form, climbing up steep cliffs along the shoreline, standing proud in the midst of an icy current, catching fish. She described the taste of the cold blood as it filled her mouth, and Draco withdrew his hand, recalling how she had flinched from his cool touch.

“Please, don’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, her head turned as though to look at him. In the moonlight, he could almost see her face. This time his palm slid down the edge of her arm, following the slope of her body, before finally resting on her naked hip. His hand felt comfortable there, and she continued her tale. Just like every time before, she finished it by claiming her fierce wandering was done in his name, that she was endlessly searching for him, that her love for him made every shedding of her skin possible, knowing that he loved her, too.

Draco wasn’t used to such honesty and passion. He had no idea how even to respond to her words, her declarations of love. Draco never said it back, had never said it to anyone, not even his mother. There were many moments during which Draco had been compelled to say something— anything— but nothing could ever compare to her vivid stories and claims. What could he tell her of his daily life that would not disgust her? Draco no longer had anything of value or pride, except her love, and that she already knew. Once or twice, the words lingered in his mouth but failed to come, leaving behind a foul taste of disappointment. Somehow, though, she did not need to hear it; she told him she knew he loved her.

His thumb rubbed against the single hair and he imagined tracking her down, wherever she might be. What prevented him from doing it now was what had always prevented him. The Dark Lord was not easily deceived, nor evaded for very long. If Draco were to suddenly disappear, he knew the others would hunt him down. He wouldn’t be risking only himself with this half-cocked notion anymore. 

And what if she weren’t real, after all? The hair in his pocket declared otherwise, but how could he be sure? 

Draco continued walking, going nowhere at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Out of all of the many things Severus Snape attempted to teach Draco when he was just a boy, Occlumency had been the most useful. At first, Draco had been rubbish at it, unable to keep Professor Snape out of his mind, seeing the most horrible memories of his childhood, but eventually he improved. To some extent, Draco had his deranged aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, to thank. The first time she had invaded his mind was also the last. Since then, he’d become rather proficient at Occlumency, so much so that even the Dark Lord was unable to see his inner thoughts. If only Snape had lived long enough to bear witness.

Draco stood silently in the parlour of his former childhood home as Lord Voldemort received counsel. For the most part, Draco only half listened to them all, catching and filing away important scraps of information. Mostly, he noticed the behaviour of those summoned, determining who was excelling and who was likely to betray them all. On some occasions, he would lean toward the Dark Lord, sharing these nuances. In the beginning, Draco deliberated longer, unsure what to divulge and what to hold back. Eventually he learned to benefit himself by letting the bastards know that he could read their minds, usually through not so playful nudges while buried within their subconscious. So few now tried to deceive either Draco or the Dark Lord, and he knew it was because he had aligned himself among monsters. 

His mind wandered when the conversation grew tedious, thinking instead of his mother, Narcissa. She used to read him stories when he was a little boy, before his father put an end to that, of heroes and damsels in distress, of monsters and wizards, and good triumphing over evil. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he wondered what his mother would think of her son, the monster. 

Draco hardened his heart and his gaze. Thinking of her did no good, since she was dead. As a mother, she’d been an utter failure, allowing her only child to be subjected to such horrors no one ever should. He was glad she was gone. It didn’t matter, anyway. He focused once more on the task at hand, shoving the sentimental nonsense aside.

•×•

The nights when Draco could not tell where his arms and legs ended and the Brown Bear’s began were among his favourites. She held him so tightly he could hardly breathe. Her woodsy scent surrounded him, swallowed him whole, and left him feeling as though he were truly free. He wanted to know her body— every curve and edge—but it was impossible. She had shed her skin so many times that she was barely there in his arms, even now. She would whisper in his ear, “Just hold me. Don’t turn on the light.” They both needed the darkness, for protection. Draco told himself that he didn’t need to see her; he knew her by touch, by smell, and taste. He would always know her as his own.

Sometimes, very rarely, she would not visit him during the night. Those were always the worst for Draco, having to forego sleep altogether to avoid the nightmares and knowing how empty his bed was without her, or drinking so much whisky and Dreamless draught that he was completely oblivious. Usually, the next night she would return and Draco eagerly made up for the lost caresses, breathing deeply of her hair, noting the sandalwood undertones. 

However, it had been nearly a week since the Brown Bear had come to his bed, and Draco feared he was going mad. First, his thoughts had been worrisome. Had she been discovered, or killed? Was she hurt, somewhere far away, somewhere he couldn’t find her, to help her? Then his thoughts grew dark and malicious. Had she abandoned him, found him lacking in some way? Draco’s rage was immeasurable. Suffering from his own worst imaginings, he went on a rampage through his home, destroying priceless antiques and furniture. His rage was boundless, shooting out from his wand in a brilliant red stream of hate and fear, searing through bookshelves, setting them ablaze along with the tapestries. When, finally, his energy gave out, Draco collapsed in the corner of his parlour and cried. Thankfully, his House-elves stayed out of sight until, at last, his emotions were spent and he retired to his bedroom. The following morning, most of his destruction had been repaired, save what had burned to ash. 

Draco was too numb to even be ashamed of his behaviour. What came next was the notion that she no longer loved him, that she knew him to be the monster he truly was, and had finally escaped him, too. The Brown Bear’s stories always began the same, that she had escaped —escaped from what, or from whom? Had she another lover previous to Draco who had also been a bloody vile bastard, like him? His depression told him that it didn’t matter, because she was gone either way, never to return. During that one week, Draco couldn’t escape thoughts of suicide and the sheer relief it might bring. What stayed his hand every time was the hope that perhaps tonight she would be there, that she would forgive him his many sins.

When finally she returned to him, he set aside his fears and doubts, if only for the night, relishing in the feel of her hot skin on his. He resisted the urge to question her, to demand where she had been, even though it was all he could think about. Draco had learned not to question her too much because she never answered. Tonight he resented her disappearance and her furtiveness. How dare she leave him when she claimed to love him? 

Draco lay awake that night, his mind plagued by his own fears and doubts, their seeds turning into sharp thorny vines impossible to overcome. He turned onto his side to examine her in the absolute blackness. He could almost make out a shape, although it was fluid and ever changing, refusing to be recognized as something particular, something exact. The Brown Bear of Norway only played by her rules and never gave him the one thing he needed to know, to be absolutely certain that he wasn’t mad: that she wasn’t some damn figment of his deranged mind. If only he could see her, his fears would abate. If Draco could see her in the light, see that she was as real as he felt when she rested in his arms, and then he could believe. He had to see her, though. 

Slowly, inch by inch, Draco reached for his wand, keeping his eyes on what he assumed would be her sleeping head. Eventually, his fingers grasped the smooth Hawthorn, sliding it soundlessly off the nearby table. His hand trembled slightly. Draco swallowed drily, his heart warring with his mind to decide what was real and what was right. 

He whispered, “Lumos,” breaking the seal of sleep on his chapped lips. What he saw only lasted mere seconds, a blink of the eye, but it was enough to satisfy his urgent needs. The Brown Bear wasn’t a bear at all while she slept, but rather a woman, with long, willowy limbs and skin not quite as pale as his own. Faint freckles spotted her skin where the sun had managed to reach. Her small, soft breasts were held taut by the threadbare shirt clinging to them. Her hands were perfect, small, and fisted near her mouth as she slept. Wild brown hair surrounded her head and shoulders, obscuring Draco’s view. 

Curious, Draco lowered his wand ever closer. The pulsing bright light disturbed her, unfortunately. He saw just an instant before she woke her whisky-coloured eyes, wild and frightened.

In just those few seconds, he recognized the woman in his bed. It was Hermione Granger. With equal fright, both scrambled back from each other. Draco’s wand flung away, the light extinguishing. Draco fell off the bed and lay askew on the floor, staring up into the overwhelming dark, where he knew she remained on their bed. _His bed._ His heart raced and tried to burst out of his chest. _All this time? It wasn’t possible._

As the blood rushed past his ears, he thought he heard her whisper, “Why? Why did you do this?”

Utterly speechless, sprawled and waiting, Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Her feminine form was unmistakable now, although her shape lost definition due to her tousled hair. He swallowed several times, unable to moisten his mouth to reply. What exactly could he say to her? The urge was there, but not the words. 

She spoke instead. “Now you must find me, if we’re ever to see each other again,” she said, her voice as soft as the rustle of sheets. With her final words, Draco saw her shadowy silhouette disappear, leaving nothing but the darkness of the empty room behind. 

Eventually, he stood, blindly reaching for his wand with a trembling hand. She was gone; however, the bed radiated her warmth still. His fingers gently brushed where she’d lain, frightened and baffled by what had happened so quickly. The stark emptiness of his bedroom rang through his ears for the remainder of the night and into the grey morning, leaving his mind jumbled and hazy. His eyes never left the spot she once occupied.

•×•

The days sped by but the nights were eternally long, a never-ending nothingness that gnawed at Draco until finally it was day again. He forgot what it felt like to actually allow his body rest, to rejuvenate. His mind worked relentlessly at the puzzle before him. How was it possible that his compassionate bed mate, his Brown Bear, was also Hermione Granger, Mudblood and former rebel? His mind refused to wrap around both ideas and concede they were, in fact, one person. Although his Hogwarts days were long behind him, Draco could recall Granger, how she’d been so very pedantic and obnoxious, a bleeding heart for worthless creatures such as House-elves and Longbottom. How she’d befriended Potter and the blood traitor Weasleys. He also remembered her as bold but not beautiful. When he’d cast his wand light upon her —when he ruined the one good thing he’d left in the world —she didn’t look much like he recalled. She was leaner, yes, and her hair, which had always been bushy, was now apparently completely wild and free. Nevertheless, her eyes were the same as they had always been, large and welcoming.

Draco couldn’t free himself from her haunting parting words. What did she mean, to come find her? How? Where? The charmed hair still in his pocket was his first idea, but no charm cast seemed to direct him wherever she was hiding. He didn’t bother to wonder why she was hiding. Hermione Granger had been a top-ranking Undesirable near the beginning of the new world order, and after some time had been captured. Like most Mudbloods, she’d been tortured for a time, and eventually sold into slavery. Although Draco knew exactly what that could entail, he refused to linger on that.

Despite the failure to lead him to the Brown Bear… to Hermione Granger … Draco kept her hair in his pocket day and night, relishing the cold, numb sensation as the blood filled the tip of his finger.

•×•

Knockturn Alley was decrepit and hollow now. The blackened bricks were crumbling away, leaving nothingness behind. The cold, wet wind swept across the mislaid bricks, stirring up debris of years forgotten – of witches and wizards who’d been forgotten – and chilled Draco to his core. With a sneer, he lifted his collar against the chill and moved on.

Since the Dark Lord’s reign began, this once vile area had been abandoned by its denizens for better quarters. Now, everything throughout Diagon Alley looked exactly like the frightening Knockturn Alley of Draco’s youth. All of the once bustling, colourful shops where harried parents rushed their Hogwart’s students up and down the aisles, eagerly snatching up the necessary items for the coming school year, were now bleak and dying. Hardly a single, unmarred pane of glass remained in shop windows. Rats scurried across the warped floors, screeching out their fright by Draco’s presence. He’d grown accustomed to all of this, so it barely registered. Whenever possible, he avoided Diagon Alley and what lay beyond; however, today was an exception.

He turned down one broken and motley cobblestone path and headed toward Nott, the Record Keeper. Since the fall of the previous world more than a decade before, Theodore Nott had been charged with keeping the history and records of this new world, such as it was. Although a seemingly repetitive and lowly occupation, Nott apparently excelled at it, keeping very detailed records, including the sales and subsequent deaths, of every Mudblood slave transaction, which was precisely what Draco needed. 

What had become of Hermione Granger after all this time? Potter, of course, had been tortured and murdered by his Master. It had been a slow ordeal, which Draco had witnessed first-hand. The Dark Lord relished every moment of Potter’s death and dismemberment. The Weasleys had managed to scatter in the winds. A most had been captured and persecuted, yet only Percy had actually broken. Unfortunately, the prat had known nothing of the Order of the Phoenix, and was subsequently put down for his uselessness. Not too long ago, Draco recalled seeing wanted posters for Charlie Weasley, so he assumed the bastard was still at large. His hiding place must be extraordinary, to have deluded the Death Eaters this long, he marvelled. Or, perhaps the sod had killed himself out of grief or shame or plain cowardice. No one knew. 

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, had supposedly gone through the system. Draco thought he recalled seeing her name on an auction sheet years ago. Although he would admit it to no one, the vague notion of bidding for her had occupied him for days, then. Of course, he didn’t even attend. It wasn’t unheard of for a high ranking Death Eater such as himself to own a Mudblood like Granger, yet something kept him from acting on his impulse. Actually, Draco knew many other Death Eaters who _collected_ slaves for their personal enjoyment, but the idea left a foul taste in Draco’s mouth. Despite what his comrades believed or chose to do with their bodies, such disgusting conduct was beneath a Malfoy. Still, he’d tossed the notion around, hadn’t he? Draco couldn’t help but wonder if he had purchased Granger, would she have been as warm and loving in his bed?

Another sharp wind whipped up, circling his legs and bustling past him, urging Draco to complete this unsavoury and dangerous task. 

There was no bell above Nott’s door. There was no need for one. A moment after Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, Theodore Nott appeared from behind a long row of books. He hardly recognized the man who’d once been as close to a friend as Draco had had growing up. Nott’s face was leathery and taut and his thin hair had receded from the top of his balding head. He did not smile, did not speak a word of greeting. Draco worried for a moment that Nott somehow knew why he was there and instantly he raised his mental guard against the former housemate.

Nott raised his wiry eyebrows in question. Without thought, Draco raised his chin in response before striding up to the counter between the two wizards. 

“Slave transactions since 1998,” Draco demanded, his eyes steady on Nott’s. The other wizard’s eyebrows dropped down into a furrow, but he remained silent. The pair stared at one another for a few more seconds before finally Nott aimed his wand back towards the endless rows of enormous ledgers. From out of the darkest row flew a whirlwind of books, which stacked, neatly on the other side of Nott, just out of Draco’s reach. Before the final book had landed, Draco pursed his lips, his eyes cutting back to Nott expectantly. Nott’s expression had not changed.

Draco’s bravado was short-lived as he felt the Pepper-up potion begin to wear off. Fatigue quickly returned, and it was obvious that Nott was missing nothing as his brow slowly relaxed and his eyes narrowed. A small smirk grew, too. 

Draco shifted his stance before retrieving a heavy velvet pouch that jingled with coins. Nott spared a glance at the bag but mostly kept his attention on Draco. This was not good. A tremble started in the hand holding the bags, the coins tinkling softly. Without warning, Draco tossed the velvet bag directly into Nott’s face, distracting him long enough for Draco to retrieve his wand and begin casting.

Draco’s advantage was transitory. Nott managed to duck behind his counter, forcing Draco to vault over to follow. Unfortunately, his body was so exhausted, Draco stumbled and sprawled across the floor, his wand rolling out of reach. He looked up to find Nott crab-walking back into a shadowy row, panting with his teeth bared. 

Without a moment to lose, Draco called for his wand and lunged, slipping once or twice on pages that had fallen out of the requested ledgers. Before he could reach him, Nott’s wand appeared and sparks flew. Their skirmish stirred up an unbelievable about of dust, which hindered Draco’s vision slightly. Back and forth, the former housemates aimed at one another. A fire broke out next to Draco, so he jumped back out of the aisle, panting and sweating. He couldn’t afford to lose Nott now. In fact, Draco was second-guessing what he would eventually have to do with Nott, since he’d not anticipated this kind of resistance. 

Adrenaline surged through him as he gained on Nott, who had finally made it to his feet, flinging boxes and books into the path. Draco narrowly avoided a Cruciatus, and before his enemy could try again, he took Nott down.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Nott’s withered body shuddered as it stiffened like a board. He fell, face first, against the nearest shelf and remained there. Draco glanced over his shoulder towards the alley, his heart racing madly. He clambered over the debris, unable to find sure footing as he tried to see if anyone had heard the commotion. Satisfied, Draco flicked his wand, locking the front door before returning to Theodore Nott. The poor sod’s mouth had been open when Draco stunned him, and so his teeth were currently wedged against the wood shelf, making him look too much like a grotesque, hairless beaver. Shaking his head, Draco conjured up ropes and silencing charms and left Nott in the dark recess of his records. 

Draco knew that, despite whatever he might find within the transaction ledgers, he would not find Granger there. Having spent years listening to the Brown Bear’s beautiful, haunting stories about living in the wild, it was impossible that she could still be a slave.

Briefly, Draco considered going directly to Norway, since those were the lands she claimed to roam in bear form. However, he wasn’t a complete imbecile. He was a well-versed man, having some familiarity with storytelling and myth. Her descriptions, although fascinating and remarkable, were nothing but fantastic words meant to sooth both of their wounded souls. No, he would begin at the beginning, and so Draco search for her bill of sale.

Draco spared a glance at Nott, who was thankfully out cold on the dirty floor. They had been friends, once. Almost. As much as any two Slytherins could truly call someone a friend. He took in the wizard’s gaunt face, noting again how wretched Nott had become. Draco was also thankful there were no mirrors here as he returned to the books. He knew exactly what his own reflection would show.

He quickly scanned through the pilfered ledgers, finally discovering Granger’s listing. He was quite impressed with Nott’s record keeping skills. A charmed Quick Quill jotted down the information Draco discovered and read aloud. Any moment, the charms could wear off, or some sod could come rattle the shop’s doorknob. Unfortunately, the transactions, although suitable for their intentions, did not serve Draco as he had expected. Yes, he learned where Hermione Granger had been bought, to whom she’d been sold, and for what price, but it had all happened too many years ago. Frantically, he flipped through the other ledgers, searching for something, any other reference of her whereabouts. There were three entries for her, and the latest purchaser, one X. Metivier, listed Lyon as his residence, but Draco was unfamiliar with the wizard. His research would have to delve deeper and, glancing once again at Nott, elsewhere.

It wasn’t until he had exited Knockturn Alley, passing through the old Leaky Cauldron, which somehow remained in business despite the topsy turvy world, that Draco realized he had not really hurt Nott when he could have, when he ought to have. Had he not Obliviated the bastard, Nott would have undoubtedly sold Draco out to the first Death Eater he came across; however, it never actually occurred to Draco to kill him, despite all of this. 

Draco swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and hurried home, his head buzzing with anticipation.

•×•

During the endless nights, Draco continually asked himself why he even bothered. It was Hermione Granger, not some wonderful Messiah, after all. Besides, even if Granger were _somehow_ really his Brown Bear, she had abandoned him, had she not? Why should he put himself through so much trouble and danger looking for her? She had ruined his life and kept him in constant jeopardy. Having slept no more than a few scant hours during the last several weeks had finally become evident to the wrong people.

At least he was still able to hold himself together marginally in the presence of Lord Voldemort. It took more strength than Draco had previously believed himself capable of to maintain a semblance of his former level of obedience and attention to the Dark Lord, for the Brown Bear pervaded every moment now, both awake and especially asleep. His thoughts were difficult to wrangle these days, and Draco found barely viable excuses to avoid his master. Although Lord Voldemort had said nothing, and Draco had convinced himself that the fiendish autocrat couldn’t possibly know the finer details of Draco’s deception, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the fine thread of his abilities to maintain this crazy charade would snap and all would be lost. 

It was time for Draco to visit France. 

Coercing the Dark Lord was an improbable feat, and no matter how gifted or damn lucky he’d always been, Draco knew he was not up to the task. As Draco magically packed a rucksack with the necessary items for his journey, he couldn’t rightly say he would miss any of this pale semblance of a life. There was nothing here for him anymore, no one besides himself to worry about. _Except the Brown Bear…_

Draco stood still, listening. Although he no longer kept House-elves, it was conceivable that someone might be listening at the door, waiting for Draco to take the wrong step and put an end to all of this madness. On the one hand, he relished the relief that might bring, but on the other hand was her. She was waiting for him to come find her, to save her. After so many years of being the villain, Draco’s heart raced when he considered he could possibly become the hero. 

When nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and before he could convince himself otherwise, Draco shrunk his large bag down and tucked it safely in his robes before grabbing a fistful of Floo Powder. Draco was not an impulsive man, for the most part, and he knew well enough that his Floo was monitored, and so he took the first step on his convoluted journey to escape Lord Voldemort and the horrible life he’d always known.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco took a swig from his silver flask. After four days’ journey hiding from his former colleagues, he no longer grimaced from the taste of Polyjuice. Fortunately, every day he’d managed to obtain a stray hair from some random passing Muggle. The best place for this, he discovered, was while traveling on the trains. Muggles were very unsuspecting, and a seemingly sincere apology after bumping into one afforded Draco just what he valued most. 

How he looked it did not really matter, so long as he didn’t resemble himself. His face currently wasn’t plastered across pillars here in Lyon, but that didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t looking for him. He was a traitor, now. He could only imagine how many galleons’ reward was promised for him, dead or alive. Although troublesome, it was to be expected. Among his stores of potions and trinkets, Draco had packed a previously confiscated wand, which was quite handy, allowing him to still use magic as necessary without the worry of being traced so quickly. Even so, he was overly cautious.

Scribbled on a piece of yellow paper with a sticky back was the last known address for a Xavier Metivier here in Lyon. Draco was close now, he knew, and that was when he ought to be the most afraid. How many blood traitors and Mudbloods had he captured when they had believed themselves safe, so close to freedom? He could no longer recall. 

Dressed in Muggle attire and wearing a stranger’s face, Draco was still very frightened, keeping his head down while his eyes continually scanned the crowded streets. The neighbourhood seemed welloff, especially this far out of the city proper. His legs ached from so much walking and very little time to rest. Although his broom was shrunk and stored within his cloak, he dared not use it. This was a Muggle neighbourhood, after all, but even when he travelled, he only relied on his broom in dire situations and for very short periods. Flying was too conspicuous. Oh, but what he wouldn’t give just for a moment’s reprieve!

Draco checked the house numbers, his heart palpitating wildly. At last, he reached his destination. He stood below the steps, staring up at the ornate door, barely breathing.

What if she wasn’t here? What if he’d been mistaken all along? It wasn’t unheard of for a Death Eater’s cheese to slide off his cracker, he knew. Could he simply be mad, coming all this way, believing that Hermione Granger was his Brown Bear —that there even was a Brown Bear? 

This could all still be a trap. Merlin knew Draco had been on the other side of that proverbial door countless times, waiting to pounce on the gullible bastards who waltzed through, believing all their worries were forgotten.

What if he were wrong?

Draco closed his eyes for only an instant, remembering all those glorious nights wrapped in her hot arms, listening to her impassioned stories of cold, white nights in the dead of winter; how she claimed to only feel safe and warm when she held him close. He travelled over two thousand kilometres in a breathless, weaving route intended to avoid detection, tired and hungry and soul weary, only to falter at her doorstep.

What if she didn’t recognize him? He wanted to laugh, for how could she, like he was? His fears would not be assuaged. What if she were afraid of him, as all Muggle-borns were —afraid of what he’d become? Of what he’d always been? 

As though she were standing behind him, Draco clearly heard her whisper that she loved him. His eyes sprang open as a small bud of hope blossomed within. There was nothing but the door, waiting for him to decide.

Draco had rehearsed many times what he would say to Metivier, explaining why he’d come and who he was. It was all shite, of course, but he hoped it would fool the man just long enough. He wasn’t afraid of Metivier, but rather that after all this time, despite all the nights they had held each other so intimately, that she would reject him now. He’d come all this way, only to be waylaid by his last fear.

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Draco climbed the stairs and knocked. After a moment, the door opened inward. Draco looked up and nearly gasped.

“Yes?”

The man standing before him was not some French slave owner, but none other than Neville Longbottom. Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Longbottom had, of course, aged, just as Draco had, but he had apparently faired far better. The softness had gone out of his face, which was now rugged and bearded. He towered over Draco, so he wasn’t entirely sure the height difference wasn’t simply due to the Polyjuice. 

Longbottom’s brow furrowed, obviously suspicious by Draco’s silence. But what could he possibly say? _‘Hello, Neville. Long time! Seen Granger, have you?’_

Just as Longbottom was closing the door, Draco’s hand shot out, clutching the wood, and his voice finally returned. “Please,” was all he could manage.

Apparently, it was sufficient.

Longbottom studied him a moment longer and must have seen Draco’s honest desperation, for next he said, “Right then,” and held the door open wide.

•×•

The sitting room Longbottom led Draco to was small but warm, with overstuffed pillows dotting well-worn armchairs. The shades were thankfully pulled down, so the dimness, along with the inviting heat, urged Draco to relax, although he was still wary. Longbottom scooted by to one of the chairs facing the hallway they’d passed through. He didn’t wait for Draco to seat himself before reaching for a nearby steaming teacup. Just before taking a sip, his manners seemed to return as he offered the cup to Draco, who declined with a small wave.

Eventually, Draco sat, deciding that Longbottom posed no more threat than he had back at Hogwarts. His brain was rattled by it all. Longbottom was a well-known fugitive, a blood traitor, and suspected of aiding and abetting others like him over the last several years. Despite his previous bumbling persona, somehow he’d always evaded capture. Yet here he was, plain as day—no disguise, living freely among wizards and Muggles, seemingly without a care. It occurred to Draco that _he_ was more in hiding than Longbottom was. 

Neville Longbottom was fearless, it would seem…as well as Xavier Metivier.

The teacup looked too dainty and delicate held by its owner’s large hand. Also, it didn’t rattle against the saucer when he finally set it down, looking at Draco expectantly. “You look like you’ve come along way,” he began, grinning. “And with a purpose, I suspect. So, tell me.”

Draco stared at him, unsure how to proceed. His rehearsed story melted away within the warmth of Longbottom’s welcome, but could he simply say why he’d tracked him down? No, Longbottom would surely kick him out the moment he admitted who he really was, let alone if he asked after Granger. His silence, though, had no effect on his host’s grin. Draco opened his mouth and faltered, and then tried again, yet the words wouldn’t come.

Longbottom nodded sagely, the grin diminishing only a little as he sat forward, planting both hands on his knees as he studied Draco closely. Draco had to look away. Heat suffused his cheeks and his utter exhaustion threatened to ruin everything. 

“I know why you’re here,” Longbottom said at last, instantly drawing Draco’s fully attention. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but rather a sympathetic look had entered his eyes. “I can help, but first… you have to trust me, yeah?”

He knew, somehow Longbottom knew he was in disguise. A rush of fear pumped adrenaline through Draco as he mentally checked himself. He hadn’t felt the other wizard probe his mind. Judging by his stranger’s hands, Draco hadn’t turned back into himself, so how the bloody hell did he know?

“If you won’t have any tea, maybe you’ll have a bite, hm? Come on, then. Was just about to get some supper myself.” Longbottom rose and walked back out into the hallway, his voice trailing behind him. Draco turned in his chair to watch before eventually rising to follow. The ache in his body pulled at every muscle, irritated by the movement, but comfort didn’t matter anymore. He followed Neville Longbottom’s voice into the kitchen, where he found him peeking into an oven, a quilted mitten fitted snugly on his right hand. “Hope you like Shepherd’s Pie!”

Draco leaned in the doorway, still having said nothing but one word to his former classmate, still unsure what exactly he could say. His instincts told him to stay on guard, to be prepared, but his body was ready to give out. A voice in Draco’s head, which sounded very much like the Brown Bear’s, asked him what harm it would do to trust someone. He could think of a thousand ways trust could bring him great harm, in fact; however, he knew he had to.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Longbottom said, his voice slightly strained as he hefted the dish from the oven. The glorious aroma made Draco’s already weak knees practically give out from under him. “Why don’t you tell me over supper?” 

The pair sat across from one another and tucked into the most delicious food Draco could recall eating. As they ate, Longbottom remained silent, allowing Draco the time and space to say what he’d come all this way to say. When he confessed who he really was, Longbottom simply stared at him for a moment before laughing. “You look like shite, man!”

The hardest now behind him, Draco ignored the remark and spoke the words that hurt him the most. “She’s not here,” he said, his voice dull.

Longbottom chewed thoughtfully, not looking at Draco, whose body thrummed in anticipation, his food forgotten. At last, he answered, “No, not anymore.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Draco’s temper rose, his fist pounding twice on the table, rattling their dishes. The muscles in his jaw tensed and he used what strength remained to not throttle his gracious host. All of this got Longbottom’s attention. 

“Why are you asking for her?” His voice was even and calm, but the challenge was evident.

_Because she belongs to me. Because I can’t sleep, can’t live, without her. Because she abandoned me,_ Draco wanted to reply. He turned away from Longbottom and that’s when he saw them: three brown hairs caught on the high back of his chair. She had been here, had sat by Longbottom’s fire and possibly drank his tea. Maybe she had even slept here. Seeing that small part of her sent a bolt though Draco and the words were out before he knew it. “Because I need her,” he whispered. 

The fight within him vanished then, and Longbottom must have noticed for he stood up and led Draco upstairs, where he offered him a bed for the night along with a promise that they would talk more in the morning. Draco couldn’t have refused if he’d wanted to. Almost the moment his body stretched out on the firm bed he was asleep.

•×•

The delicious scent of bacon woke Draco. As he sat up, stretching, he realized that for the first time since The Brown Bear had rejected him, he’d slept so heavily that no time seemed to have gone by. Also, he hadn’t dreamed, which was a pleasant change. He remembered the hairs on the chair and glanced about the room, wondering if she, too, had slept here, in this very bed. He had dared not hope that she would come to him —not since he’d doubted her, but now, in the morning light, he realized yet another mistake he’d made. He should have looked for her here, for the ghost of his Brown Bear, because even in this harsh light, he could feel her longing breaths almost against his warm cheek.

Using the loo rather than a cleansing charm, Draco freshened up a bit before descending. The two sat at the kitchen table and ate without speaking more than grunts. As he ate, Draco eyed Neville Longbottom, noticing the drooping eyes and slack mouth. Knowing neither was a morning person nearly made him smile. When they were finished, Longbottom swished the dishes toward the sink where they began to clean themselves. The pair retreated to the sitting room, where his host finally shared what Draco had been waiting so long to hear.

“Hermione was here, but that was years ago. Took a long time to track her down, you see. She wasn’t the first one who came through here, or the last. That’s what I thought you were here for, too: sanctuary.” Longbottom’s eyes focused on Draco for a long, quiet moment, apparently assessing his guest. He must have seen something there, for he continued with a sigh. “For several years now, this place,” he waved a hand around the quaint house, “has been a stopping point for those in need— for those your lot has hunted down. The Order and Dumbledore’s Army may seem disbanded, but we’re not defeated; not so long as there are those of us around to do what we can. It’s my job to get them to safety, by any means necessary. Sometimes, that just means lodging them for a night or two. Other times, like for Hermione, it means putting on a grand show.”

“You mean Metivier.”

“Yes, that’s one of them. An old family name. So, I found her, saved her, and she lived here with me for a time. They don’t always make it, you know, and for a long time, she was questionable.”

“What do you mean?”

Longbottom hesitated, his face creasing. “Hermione’s…well, she’s not the same anymore. Hardly anyone is, after the war and the massacres, of course, but she’s…” his voice trailed off, and Draco seemed to understand what he meant without him having to finish.

“I asked her to stay with me.” The words drove a knife into Draco’s heart, imagining what exactly Longbottom had meant by them—what he could have possibly meant to _her_ , too. All this time, it had never honestly occurred to Draco that the Brown Bear of Norway could have possibly belonged to someone else, could possibly love anyone besides him. Cold jealously spread through Draco as he glared across at Neville Longbottom, who was apparently ignorant of what hell he had invoked. “But this was no place for a bear.”

So, it was true after all. Draco wasn’t mad, he hadn’t imagined it. Hermione Granger was indeed a bear. _His_ bear. “She rejected you,” he accused, a sneer evident in his tone. Longbottom merely laughed.

“Sorry, no,” he assured Draco. “It wasn’t like that! Honestly. Hermione is the sister I always wanted. I love her, I do, and I’ll protect her ‘til my dying day.”

“Then why are you telling me all this? Why are you helping me?”

Longbottom smiled. “Now and then, everybody needs a little help.”

The room was quiet for a moment, both wizards considering each other. Longbottom broke first. 

“She mentioned you, that’s why. I knew someday you’d come looking for her. To be quite honest, you’re later than I expected.” Draco merely stared, his mouth having fallen open in utter shock. “She needs you, too. Why don’t you stay a few days, recuperate and such?”

“Why does a bear need anyone?” It came from the darkest place within him and took Draco, if not Neville Longbottom by surprise. 

“Oh, not anymore. At least, I don’t think so. Hermione’s not a bear anymore.” 

He could only imagine the perplexed look upon his face, but judging by Longbottom’s reaction, it must have been severe, for he stood up and tugged at Draco’s sleeve, urging him to follow. 

Down the hall was a door he hadn’t noticed the night before, and as Longbottom led him through it, cold and terrible dread flooded his chest. “She’d always loved this room in particular,” he said, flipping on a light switch. Of course she would have, for it was a small library. Books covered every inch of wall space and then some. There was a worn cushion in the window and a heavy throw blanket crumpled on the floor. As Draco stepped closer, he noticed something was wrong about the blanket. Longbottom’s wand flicked and lit the room further, revealing not a blanket, but a mass of fur, twisted, huge, and formless.

Draco’s racing heart suddenly stopped. He couldn’t breathe, staring down at what was once the Brown Bear of Norway. Seconds passed before he was able to move, and when he could, he fetched the poker from the cold fireplace and prodded the mass on the floor. Beneath it, the carpet was darkly stained. Draco was quite familiar with bloodstains, and these weren’t fresh. The underside of the pelt was hard and rough, the dried blood stiffening the fur.

“It’s only the skin. I lied to you,” his voice was soft and apologetic. “She was here two days ago. She mentioned you—that’s how I knew what was happening, that you would be coming. Don’t think either of us realized you’d be here so soon, or perhaps…”

The anxiety he felt was not only his but hers as well, as though the room had absorbed it along with her blood. He was quite dizzy and would have crumpled to the floor if Longbottom hadn’t sent a chair to catch him first. Draco couldn’t take his eyes off the fur. 

“She said love was a sacrifice,” Longbottom added quietly after summoning a chair for himself. Eventually, Draco looked at him, but neither spoke for a very long time. 

So many questions ran through his head. He’d come all this way and had found what he’d been searching for —what he’d been so impressed with, the skin, the fur—yet she was still just out of his reach. She’d always been out of his reach. Now what was he supposed to do? Looking at Neville Longbottom, he knew he didn’t have the answers. Likely, no one had them, not even Hermione Granger. _A sacrifice!_ Oh, yes, she’d made a sacrifice, and for what? What was she expecting of him in return, he wondered, irritation taking the place of shock and fear. The desire to go home and forget all of this rose up. Yes, he thought he’d like that, to just walk away from all of this nonsense, from her endless games and challenges. He ought to be glad for seeing this corpse on the floor, stiff and lifeless, was what he had wanted, a resolution. Having found the Brown Bear, Draco was now free of the burden of her love. He considered going home and taking the thing as a keepsake. But honestly, what did he have to go home to? An imitation of a life filled with cruelty and injustice, a bleak sub-existence without hope, or love. He’d come so far.

His mind was made up, and with a calm voice, he said, “She can’t have gone far without her skin. No, I have to find her.”

Longbottom lifted an ineffectual hand to calm Draco before standing up, too, and placing both hands on his shoulders. His strength pressed down into Draco, forcing him to relax long enough to listen. “I can’t let you run off like this —just look at you! You’re not in any shape to go further right now, Malfoy. Won’t do either of you any good. Just stay here a little longer, and I promise you’ll reach her soon, okay?”

He couldn’t look at him, for if he did, he might say something or do something he’d regret. Instead, Draco took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. “You’ve been … very kind to me,” he began, his words stunted and sticking like molasses in his mouth. “That’s not…People don’t…”  
Thankfully, Longbottom had also looked away. Draco’s glance was quick, prepared to backtrack if necessary, but because he was given yet another undeserved kindness, he was able to continue. “The longer I stay, the longer I’m away from her, I’m afr—”

The rest was left unsaid. He’d already spent one night away from her when he hadn’t needed to; he wasn’t about to waste any more time, no matter how sincere Neville Longbottom was. Judging by his host’s heavy sigh, he understood it was pointless to argue. “All right, Malfoy, but you must listen to me carefully.”

•×•

An hour later, Draco was trudging his way through a foot of snow in Oslo, heading deeper into a dense forest. He regretted leaving the Barmy Bat Inn, because he was now convinced that the bat wasn’t the only barmy bugger. Longbottom’s map was utterly worthless without a Four-Point spell. Supposedly, further into the woods was a discreet clearing, and in the middle of said clearing was a small cabin. Longbottom had explained that he stocked the cabin with what food and supplies he could every six weeks or so. It had been some time since he’d been here, though, and she hadn’t mentioned if she would return to the cabin; however, it was the only lead he could offer Draco.

Draco paused again to consult the map, his chest heaving from the terrible cold and exertion. For the third time he was tempted to cast the Four-Point spell, despite Longbottom’s warning. This area of Oslo was not known for its magical community and any extended use of magic could trigger the Death Eaters who were certainly searching for Draco. He’d allowed himself five minute increments of a warming charm, but it was harder each time to end the enchantment; the bitter cold had very sharp teeth. 

Shaking his head, furious again at Neville Longbottom for drawing him a map and adamantly professing that he could not simply use his Floo to reach her, Draco trudged on, tucking the map securely away. One question continued to gnaw away at him, one that couldn’t figure out for himself and would be damned before asking Longbottom. Why had Hermione Granger come to him, and how, exactly? Was Granger an Animagus? That would explain her alter ego, but being an Animagus wasn’t synonymous with astral projection. It wasn’t her physical body that had slept with him nearly every night of his adult life, but rather her spirit, her essence, somehow. Besides, Granger had been rotten at Divination; the likelihood of her perfecting such a skill was next to zero. 

Even though Draco hadn’t divulged how long ago her first visit had been, and definitely not what occurred between them on those wonderful nights, Longbottom seemed to know enough, anyway. In fact, he had acted like Granger’s ethereal body appearing in the night was nothing short of old hat. That got a rise out of Draco. Just looking at the small smile on Neville Longbottom’s face irked him greatly. How many others had she been with, he had wondered then and wondered now; a dark soul-crunching irritation and irrationalism funnelling through this blood, the blind jealousy germinating within.

Longbottom’s next words, thankfully, had been a cooling salve to Draco’s soul.

“She chose you,” he had said, simply, factually. A small blossom of hope burst forth deep inside Draco’s chest. Faintly, he heard her whisper that she loved him, easing away some of his doubts. Draco nodded. “Then that’s good enough. She can’t go on like this much longer.” He sighed and ran his hand through his shaggy hair, frowning as he stared at the mounded fur on the floor, “It takes a sacrifice.”

Sacrifice. He carried her sacrifice with him, across his own back, the weight solid yet yielding. She had given up this magic for him, for her love for him, so that he would not give up on them. She loved him that much. No one had ever done that for him before, not even his mother. That was her sacrifice to prove her love. Now it was his turn. Draco had, of course, given up his life and security, but that was unequal to her gift. What could he possibly sacrifice to prove to her, his Brown Bear… to Hermione Granger, that he truly loved her? 

After another half hour, Draco stamped as best he could in such deep snow and loudly cursed Neville Longbottom and his sodding excuse for a map before pulling out his wand and casting the Four-Point spell. Seconds later, he had a good bearing and unshrunk his broom. Tucking away both the map and his wand, Draco took to the sky, flying into the pummelling snow, high above the trees. _Goggles might have been a good idea_ , he berated himself as he zoomed through the wintry night. Her bear skin whipped around him, threatening to fall off any second. He kept a firm grip on the skin, his hand fisted beneath his ducked chin, while the other controlled the broom. He was so tired and cold. His body began to shake, despite the warming charm as well as the bearskin, and the broom handle jerked, jeopardizing him further.

At last, he spotted the clearing and began his descent.

His landing was less than graceful, but he could care less. The cold was unbearable; he was numb up to his hips, almost, and his face burned from the bitter snow still blowing against his exposed skin. But just ahead, just as Neville Longbottom had said, was a cabin. 

It was quite small, smaller than he had anticipated, with a rather steep roof. The snow was nestled up around the cabin on all sides, yet the door was mostly visible; she’d been in and out quite recently, it seemed. Draco didn’t dare stop moving forward, out of fear that his legs would wobble out from under him; that he would collapse and die here in the snow, practically within reach of her at last; but most of all, out of fear that he might begin to doubt his worthiness of her.

When at last he had reached the door, Draco neither hesitated nor bothered to knock. He knew she was waiting for him. He struggled to close the door, finally using his feet to kick it shut. After all that commotion, the cabin was eerily quiet and dark. Directly in front of Draco was a small, circular fireplace in the centre of the small one-room cabin. The broom he leaned against the wall, behind the door. Stiffly, he removed the bearskin, his muscles aching from the cold and the weight. He laid it across the stone seat before the fire. It surrounded the seat, a small cub curled up asleep. The fire had died down, giving off the faintest warmth and light. A glowing candle to the right drew his attention.

There she was, lying in a large, rustic log bed, her back toward him. His breath caught as he stared at her, so close he could hear her breathing. Her long curly brown hair cascaded across the pillow and down, nearly touching the floor. Draco watched her for a long moment as myriad thoughts and fears raged between his heart and his head. Fortunately, his body had warmed some, and his feet moved him forward of their own volition. 

Before too many steps, he was next to her, staring down at her pale, exposed back, her thin shoulders. Instantly, he looked away. A voice inside his head told him it wasn’t too late, he could leave now, leave the shed bear skin here and just walk away, save himself. She would never know he’d been there. Draco flushed at his cowardly instincts and pushed them aside. 

He looked down at her again. She was just as he’d remembered, pale and smooth, looking as if she had just turned away from him in her sleep. In the faint candlelight, Draco could make out blemishes, moles and flecks of dried blood, especially between her shoulder blades, where she wouldn’t have been able to reach. He ought to have been tired of looking at her back, but as he stood there above her, he felt the peace she had always given him. 

Draco stepped quietly away from her to retrieve a cloth to wash her in this intimate place, a place she herself could never see, a place she had often left exposed to him, trusted him with her vulnerability. As he swept the warm wet cloth between the sharp angles of her back, she stiffened and shrank away. Hermione’s head turned sharply to look at him, her brows knitted together in alarm. 

Then, she softened, her large whisky-coloured eyes growing larger still. She stared up at Draco, seemingly unaware just how exposed she was to him, her pale skin glowing brilliantly in the candlelight. The washcloth in his had fell away as Draco drank in her lovely face, something she had always denied him. Faded freckles crisscrossed her face. Her eyebrows were dark, much darker than her hair, and sharply angled, giving her a fierce look. Her mouth hung open in surprise, and he could just make out her white teeth behind the chapped lips.

“I love you.”

Suddenly, the words were out, beyond his control. He felt lightheaded and desperately wanted to sit down anywhere. His throat convulsed and it was too difficult to swallow. She said nothing in return, only continued to stare up at him. His fears swam back, engulfing him. He’d been wrong, this had been a mistake, but now it was too late to undo any of it. In that moment, Draco realized that even if he could take it all back, undo everything that had led him here, to her, he wouldn’t have, for everything he’d endured was worth just looking at her beautiful face and telling her, finally, what he felt for her.

Hermione’s striking eyes softened and a small, shy smile appeared on her face. A knot of tension began to uncoil within Draco and he felt himself smiling back at her. She lifted the heavy covers of her bed open in invitation to him, and he accepted without hesitation. They held each other in the darkening cabin, far away from the rest of the world. Draco couldn’t take his eyes off her face, drinking in every small detail and setting it to memory, even though he knew he would have the rest of his life to look upon her loveliness. He repeated his love for her, softly, and she gave him her love in return.

The End.


End file.
